Our Special Day
by marinoa
Summary: It's only once a year, so England needs to just suck it up and take solace in the fact that when the night is over, there are three hundred and sixty-four lovely days to go until Entente cordiale hits again. Easier said than done, though, because this year his government has come up with something utterly horrendous.


**Our Special Day**

England wakes up to an extremely unpleasant corkscrewing feeling in his gut and remembers instantly that it is _that day._ He groans aloud and pulls his covers over his head in vain hope that he is just having a nightmare about waking up, but, contrary to a popular joke, England is not a fool and very well understands that it indeed is all real. You all know the feeling: there is something unpleasant ahead, and, when you're past the point of pretending that it won't happen after all, you just suck it up and decide to go through whatever mud is thrown your way.

That is the case with England, too, and so, instead of burying himself under his pillows and blankets, he bravely casts them aside and gets up, resined determination written all over his face. It's just one day, and when it's over, there will be three hundred and sixty-four days until it comes again. One day in a year. He'll manage, as he has before.

England hurries through his morning routines and does his best to keep his mind as blank as he suspects (and has evidence of) Italy's mind being. However, he is not Italy, so he doesn't quite manage to close Him Who Shall Not Be Named In England's House out of his thoughts. He tries, oh, he tries. But F- He Who Shall Not Be Named In England's House clings persistently around in every corner of England's home even though he is not there physically. Yet.

England sighs, prepares himself mentally, steps out of him home on the street, and forces his legs to take him to Buckingham Palace that will be his personal hell today.

"Mr England, there you are!" the Prime Minister greets him cheerfully when he arrives – late – to the Palace. "We've all been wondering if you got cold feet or something."

"Good to day to you, too," England responds dryly. "How could you possibly think that I could miss this occasion when you know how much I love it?"

"Loosen up, England, this is supposed to be a fun day."

"That's what I'm told every year," England grumbles barely audibly. "Seriously, it's been one hundred and ten years, can't we just drop it already? Why do we have to create this circus every bloody year?"

"Because it's been one hundred and ten years and we haven't been in war against France. You know very well that we need to keep up pleasant appearances if we want for our good relations to continue." The Minister rolls eyes at him – at him, at _England_, he has a nerve, that one! – and adds rather insolently, "Why do you have to create this argument every bloody year?"

England mutters something illegible under his breath and would have stuck his hands in his pockets were he not wearing a suit. He knows that this day – this celebration – couldn't be avoided, knows how rulers these days are all for good appearances and all, but he still can't help but grumble. Old habits die hard.

He glances at his his watch. It's still about an hour until _he_ arrives with his retinue, an hour to check that everything is in order, perfect, and ready for the great annual celebration of Entente cordiale.

"So," England states. "The preparations?"

"Everything is in its right place and ready."

"Excellent." England glances at his watch again. Only to count hours till the end of the day, naturally. "So, what's in the programme today?"

Both England and France's governments have long since learnt not to let their representative Nations get involved with the preparations for the great celebration to keep the special day as pleasant as possible, and while this decision irritates England, he is also glad to have as little as possible to do with the whole matter. That said, he would like to know what lies ahead of him.

"We will begin with the usual ceremonies," the Prime Minister tells. "Visit the monuments, attend the service, and so on, you know the drill. Then we will take them here for dinner and dance." The Minister leads England to the hall, where they will welcome their guests in less than an hour – unless the frogs come late, of course. Three men and a woman stand in the hall, looking nervous in front of their Nation. Arthur has never seen them before, but the Minister explains that this is the group responsible for everything, and that England may question them if he wants to know any particulars.

"I see." England stops in front of one of the men. "What are you responsible for?"

"Dinner, sir."

"And what shall we have for dinner?"

"Well." The man swallows nervously under the gaze of sharp, green eyes. "For _hors d'oeuvre_ we'll enjoy various salads with _escargot, _after which -"

"Excuse me," England interrupts calmly. "I'm afraid I misheard. _What_ is to be for starters?"

"_Escargot_, sir, and salad."

"Snails," England says, as if not quite comprehending. Then it sinks in and he whirls to his Prime Minister. "_Snails_? Are you out of your mind? We are _not_ having snails for dinner, not in this house, not in _his_ presence, not for this occasion!"

The responsible chef shrinks visibly, but the Minister is perfectly placid. "Everything is already prepared," he states firmly. "This is a special year – the hundred and tenth anniversary – so we made the decision to honour our allies by making them feel at home."

"I absolutely object! We will not -"

"The preparations are all made already," the Minister repeats calmly, and England gets the feeling that the man is secretly laughing at him. "Sir."

Furious, Arthur turns to the young woman, next in line. "And what are you responsible for?" he nearly barks out.

The woman remains admirably calm. "Music, sir."

"And what of music?"

Now she looks hesitant. "I've chosen the best pieces of French composers -"

"French composers!" England feels dizzy, dread spreading all over his body. "Why don't we hire French musicians to play that music then, as nothing English is apparently good enough for you!"

The woman lowers her gaze. "The musicians are English," she says quietly.

"I suppose I should be thankful for that," England snorts at her and turns to the man beside her, not truly wanting to know what else is planned for his torment. "And you?"

"I'm responsible for decorations, sir."

"Well I certainly hope to God that you haven't done anything stupid like putting French flags all around the dining hall," England says coldly and fixes the man with a stern look.

But then the man pales and England understands. "You haven't."

"We have, sir. B-but paired with English flags, sir! Obviously."

"Oh how bloody marvellous!" England covers his face with his hands, inwardly screaming and wailing. Trust his government to make the worst decisions! He can already picture France's smug face and disgustingly pleased smiles when he sees it all, and draws all the wrong conclusions, and England will never, ever hear the end of it!

"There is one more thing, sir," the Prime Minister says, and England _sees_ that he is seriously fighting a smile. "To show that we consider each other equal, we have decided to use only French all through the celebration today."

England pales. He turns, completely expressionless, like ghost, to his Minister. "No."

"It is decided by Her Majesty, sir."

"Over my dead body."

"It is decided."

England explodes. "What has gone into you? Do you mean to shame your own country, man? French cuisine! French music!"

The Minister looks behind England's back. "Sir -"

"French flags all over the palace!" England vents, furious and flustered, and he doesn't hear how the doors open behind his back. "And _French_ _language_! Why not become French territory straight away while we are at it, wouldn't that be _wonderful_?"

His words are met by silence. England pants, his hands are shaking, and he draws in a deep breath. And then something breaks the silence, cuts through it like a guillotine.

"Ho ho ho ho ho~!"

England freezes.

No.

His eyes meet the Prime Minister's mirthful eyes, and slowly, so slowly, turns around.

No.

"I did not know how eagerly you desire to be mine," France, none other, deliberately states from the door, where he and his retinue halted to hear England's outburst.

_No_.

The Minister steps up to greet their guests in French, just as he had threatened. England stands beside him, numb, dumbfounded, and more than ready to die on that very instant. But then the Minister nudges him, and he is obliged to cover his face with a mask of courtesy and step forward to welcome the last person he would like to see on his land. That is why his heart does not skip a beat when, after France and he shake hands, France brings his hand to his lips and places a light, chaste kiss on his fingers. His blue eyes are full of mirth when he says lowly, for no one else to hear, "Looks like this year's celebration won't be as dull as the last time when you organised one."

England withdraws his hand and is about to retort, but then he catches his Prime Minister's warning look and remembers his manners. "Do shut the fuck up," he says politely, just as quietly as France had spoken, but his eyes shoot lightnings at his fellow Nation.

"This way, please," the Minister says and leads them to the great hall, where the Queen awaits them. England walks stiffly, expressionlessly, fighting the corkscrew in his stomach and counting minutes to the end of the day; it is going to be horrid, he can tell.

France walks beside him, and England senses rather than sees his disgustingly pleased smirk despite his best efforts to ignore him. "I must admit," France purrs quietly into his ear, "I must admit that not once in my wildest dreams have I imagined to be welcomed here by you so passionately declaring your wish to become my territory."

"Shut. Up," England growls, voice equally low; neither of them wants to be caught bickering by their ministers and presidents – appearances and all that.

The day is just as terrible as England has feared. He hasn't been fed empty threats: the hall is decorated with French flags along with the British ones, the food and music and dances indeed are all originally French, and – worst of all – even England is forced to speak French that whole day. He does insult France in English once during the ceremony, but his Queen catches him at it and frowns disapprovingly, and so he is forced to behave for the rest of the evening. And, of course, France knows this, and exploits the situation all he can, making sure to torment England to his heart's content with subtle and seemingly innocent, yet constant and well-aimed reminders of his faithful slip earlier that day. England bristles, but he is a gentleman through and through, and so he bites his tongue like the mature Nation he is and pretends not to notice any of it. Dancing is the only exception to his (their) placid surface, because no one can hear them through music, or see them among other couples twirling on the floor.

Only later, when the official celebration is over and England has taken France to his house as he does every year, only then does England take his long-awaited, well-deserved revenge on France. Nothing silly, of course, England _is_, after all, a mature Nation; serving a magic potion or two masked as wine to an unsuspecting France will not change that fact. Besides, there are three hundred and sixty-four days until the next Entente cordiale, so France has plenty of time to recover.

What will await England the following year, when the celebration is organised in France, England does not wish to think of.

X


End file.
